Never Strikes Thrice
by Azpidistra
Summary: Strange happenings are forming around Seacouver. Two teams slowly began to investigate, but something isn't right nor normal. Would it have anything to do with Duncan MacLeod's disappearance?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** None of these characters actually belong to me. Nor does the concept of Immortality. The plot is, however, entirely of my own devising.

**Author Notes:** Black Holes, of course, do exist, as is the evidence here for how they are formed. The idea of wormholes comes from Einstein's findings, in that he was the first to put forward that they might/could exist. It is stated that wormholes cannot be formed, but must be already formed.

In some ways, this is a companion piece to several others I have written. These stories (When Universes Collide/When Boundaries Fade/When Fate Intervenes/The Eleventh Demension) can be found unbderneath my profile. While none of those stories have to be read to read this one, some of the concepts put forward into this story have been mentioned in those stories as well. A few characters might pop up as well.

"_Dear Diary, Yesterday morning I killed myself, and I am still alive…"_

"Did you see that?" Annie Thelan squeaked. Technically, her name was Annie Thelan-Bell now; she had married Clu Bell the same week she had graduated from college. They were meant for one another, that was what everyone kept telling them. They both liked to surf (Clu had taught her while she was still in school), he encouraged her quirky traits and weirder obsessions with the abnormal. As the best friend of both Jack and Fiona Phillips, he seemed to think it was normal.

But no one called her Annie Thelan-Bell. At least no one called her Annie Thelan-Bell professionally. Socially, she was simply Annie Bell. Professionally, she was still Annie Thelan. It was only for a girlish-marriage sake that she sometimes hyphenated the names. She planned to hyphenate the names on her child's birth certificate. She hadn't yet told Clu that.

"Did you?" she asked again.

"See what?" Fiona Phillips asked. She barely looked up from the metratron she held in her left hand and the small stenopad of notes she held in her right. A pen was perched over her ear.

"That… this… lightening… I swear, it was just there, then gone. This weird sort-of blue-green color. Like so weird, right?" Annie waited for Fiona to smile, but Fiona did no such thing.

It was a May morning. A bright, early May morning, with birds chirping somewhere in the distance, flowers blossoming into full bloom in the Seacouver Parks and the trees in the perfect height of their spring green-ness. Fiona had come out early to gather the new coordinates Declan Callaghan had asked from her; Annie had tagged along for the ride.

"There's probably an electrical storm somewhere," Fiona shrugged. "How far away?"

"A couple miles. Definitely no more than three or four."

"And you distinctly saw the lightening shape?"

"Definitely a fork," Annie agreed.

Fiona sighed. She averted her eyes from the coordinates that flashed across the tiny two inch screen. It was just chilly enough outside that she was comfortable in her khaki-colored capris, but that she still wore a light denim jacket over her green tee. The denim jacket remained unbutton, and a small Irish flag emblazoned the tee front. She reached for the pencil behind her ear, and made a few quick notes on the page. She was glad she wore the jacket, she was glad the denim sleeves lay long and loose past her wrists. Those sleeves hid the small tattoo she wore on her right wrist from Annie's prying eyes.

"It's possible a storm in moving in from somewhere."

Fiona knew that notion wasn't improbable. Thunderstorms lived by strange and fickle rules. One side of a street could be pelted with rain or thunder and lightening while the other street side had clear, perfect and sunny weather. But things like that usually happened in warmer, more tropical places, places like Florida, where thunderstorms were as commonplace as ants. Here, in the Pacific Northwest, they very often had rain, but never rainstorms so divided.

And even more, the sky was perfect for miles around. There was no hint or inkling from anywhere that a storm was moving in or moving out. It was a perfect spring morning.

But harking the possibility up to the weather seemed like a much better than revealing to Annie her true thoughts or hypothesis. Because scarcely one minute before Annie had said anything, the readings from the metratron had spiked to dangerously high levels. To numbers up over a thousand, then down again, evening out to again to hover over one hundred.

To Fiona, it could either mean one of two things: either an Immortal had just taken a Quickening, or somewhere, something had just gone terribly wrong.

"Dropping you off at home?" Fiona asked once they were back in her car. Annie straightened her seat belt, and reached over the emergency brake to fiddle with the radio. "Or are you coming back to the office with me?"

"I'll go home," Annie decided. "I'm just a bit tired." At eight months pregnant, she decided 'a bit' was an understatement.

Fiona smiled, and nodded. She pulled out cautiously from the parking lot, and scooted onto the highway.

She, obviously dropped Annie off first, asking her if she should stay, but Annie shooed her off, telling her, "If we can't both get any work done today, at least one of us should." Fiona had the good tact to smile at the statement.

She stopped in at one of the local coffee joints to order herself a medium vanilla-caramel mocha, and on a whim she added a peppermint one for Declan. If she had read her cards correctly, he would need not only the caffeine when she shared her findings, but he would also need to be sitting down.

Fiona Phillips worked in the center of town. The offices were on the fourth floor of a sixth floor building, and on either side they were surrounded by law offices. She pulled into her regular parking spot, grabbed the two coffees, her purse, keys, notepad and the metratron and she hurried into the building. She took the stairs. Declan was sitting at his desk—like she knew he would be—frowining at his laptop screen—like she knew he would be. She placed the coffee she had bought for him in front of him. He blinked up in surprise.

"What's the occasion?" he asked.

Fiona perched herself in one of the chairs he kept for clients. She sipped her own coffee. "Have you heard of any Immortals dying today?"

Declan blinked again. "None of ours, no. Why? What happened?" He was instantly alert, folding the laptop down so he could better see Fiona's face. He picked up his coffee in his hands and he smelled it first before he took a sip.

"Annie saw some form of lightening. Claimed it was blue. I figured there might be a chance it might one of ours out there." Declan shook his head, and Fiona sighed. "Whatever it was, Dec, it caused the readings to jump over ten percent."

Declan gave a low whistle and sat back in his chair. He took another sip of his coffee. Peppermint. His favorite. "Any other ideas?"

"Just one." Declan's eyes widened, and he motioned for Fiona to continue. "Are all our guys accounted for?" she asked.

"Everyone. Harvey and Miles are out scouting. Roxie is in her office taking care of some back paperwork. Justin is in his office also, uploading the coordinates from yesterday into the archives. Said something about backlifting coordinates from earlier this week too. Annie, I am assuming, you dropped off at home?"

"I did." She sipped her coffee. "Shit," she swore quietly under her breath. "My theory is correct."

"Fi…" Declan's voice was low, almost tender. His eyes softened when he caught her gaze, and he gave her a smile. "Just tell me. I'm already sitting down, and you brought me coffee. I promise. I will not overreact."

Fiona returned the smile. "Don't promise me anything until you hear what I'm going to say." She sighed, again. "You're familiar with how a blackhole works, right?"

"Sure," Declan shrugged. "Something of a high mass—usually a star—collpases in on itself, and its mass is too large to simply vanish, so it creates another object, a black hole. The new gravity is too high, and everything is drawn into it, including light itself."

"Close enough. I made a point to do some research on black holes while at university, Declan. I came across a few other interesting things as well."

"Such as?"

"Wormholes. I came across a theory that similiarly to how black holes create in space, so too can wormholes be created here on Earth."

"But you can't create wormholes! they must already exist."

"I know. But if it wasn't a Quickening, and the sky is clear for miles, Declan, I can't think of what else it might be. And Miles has been saying something about higher electrical volume in the atmosphere. Somerone could easily manipulate that if they knew how."

"Anyway we can prove this?"

"I could make some phone calls."

"Who?"

"Giles, for one. I could try Ryan and Charlie also." Declan raised his eyebrow, and Fiona had the tact to somewhat grin. "I promise you, Ryan and I are on quite civil terms now. We have been for a while."

"If you say so," Declan shrugged it off. "Anyone else? Oz?"

Fiona shook her head. "Giles would tell me if Oz knows anything. Besides, I'm making a point to steer clear of him. Pete might know something though. I could try contacting him."

"We should contact Dawson. Just to double check it wasn't one of our charges out there. Mike Ross, too, for that matter."

"Mike wouldn't necessarily know anything. You're right about Dawson though."

"Good. Have the information to me by midnight tonight. Do it here, do it home, I don't care, just have it to me." He swallowed more of his coffee, and again, his expression softened. "Do you want me to call Rick, or should I?"

"Let me do it," Fiona answered softly. "I need to talk him eventually. Father or not."

Declan nodded. He closed his eyes momentarily. "Are you sure about the readings?"

"Positive."

Declan opened his eyes. They were green –too green for his otherwise olive complexion; almost jade, a color like forest underbrush and new grass and tree leaves. "Let's hope you're right," he spoke quietly.

But Fiona was already gone. He could hear her flipping through an addressbook through the wall.


	2. I

**Disclaimer**: None of these characters actually belong to me. Nor does the concept of Immortality. The plot is, however, entirely of my own devising.

**Author Notes**: You may have noticed the name 'Asher' pop up in this chapter. This is, in fact, the same Asher who frequented my currently discontinued 'Phobia' series, however, you may have noticed, her last name is different in this one. That was purposeful. While this Asher is the same character, she is a different person, in that she followed a different path in this story('s universe). More of that will be revealed as the story continues.

_**------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**_

Richie Ryan cracked one eye open. His clock read exactly 7:52. AM. That could mean only one thing. He still had exactlly thirty-eight minutes before his alarm went off. Which meant he had no idea why he was awake now.

He scrunched his eye back closed, rolled over and tried fitfully for two minutes to fall back asleep. No such luck. He propped both eyes open, rolled onto his back, crossed both arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Just because he couldn't sleep anymore didn't mean he was getting out of bed yet.

First thing he noticed was that the water stain on ceiling corner over his dresser looked kinda like a rabbit when he squinted his eyes really tight and didn't look too clsely. Otherwise it looked exactly like a waterstain over his dresser trying to resemble a rabbit.

Second thing he noticed was Asher Zakresjek was gone.

That one was entirely so difficult, it didn't involve any thinking. She often disappeared before he woke. That was of the beauties of their relationship. They had great conversations and even greater sex, but they didn't expect anything else from each other.

Granted he didn't remember if that was originially his or Asher's decision or if they agreed on it. Supposed it didn't really matter. It worked form them. He didn't have to commit too much, leaving him time for other things, and Asher had her freedom, which she claimed to desperately to need after her ex-husband and a childhood she wou;dn't even begin to share.

Richie drew in his breath. Sometimes he wished Asher stayed until he was awake, so that just once, just once, he could kiss her awake and see her smile next to him.

7:59. AM.

This was getting pointless. He arched one arm over to off the alarm, and he swung himself from bed. He was up. He was awake. Duncan would be proud. He needed coffee.

Duncan. That was another person he missed. Duncan had taken off a few weeks back and no one had heard from him since. Not Methos. Not Amanda. Not Joe. Not Richie.

He was beginning to wonder if he should start worrying. That was his job, to take off for long period of times without telling anyone where he was going or when he was coming back. Or Methos' job, and Methos had far more experience with it. But it just wasn't like Duncan.

He added fresh coffee grinds to the coffee pot and switched the little button to on. He perched on the counter while he waited. That was when he noticed the little red light blinking on his answering machine. Puzzled expression on his face, he hit the 'play button.'

"Rich, it's Joe. About six in the morning. Know you're probably asleep, but this is important. Need you to check in with Mike today as soon as you get up. We're having some buzz about Headquarters today and we're trying to determine if any of ours slipped through the radar last night. We got a call from some our people last night. Apparently something's up. Let me know how you are too. Take Care."

Richie frowned. Buzz? Slipped through the radar? That mean someone had taken a quickening last night? Wouldn't Headquarters know that already?

He shook his head. He'd call Mike after he got his first cup of coffee in him.

8:04. AM

He had a second message.

"Rich, hey sweetie, it's Asher. Sorry for leaving on you again, but I had an early commitment I couldn't miss. We still on for dinner tomorrow night? Call me, ok? Bye."

He'd call Asher later.

Next message.

Next message? What was this? He hadn't gone to sleep until almost three in the morning. And it was now just barely after eight.

Next message.

8:07. AM.

"Rich, it's Joe again. Call Mike or myself immediately. We have a problem."

Joe had left the message twenty-five minutes earlier.

Richie's frown grew. His coffee finished. He quickly poured himself a cup and gulped it down in long swallow. It burned his throat and made his eyes water, but at least it was coffee, and it was inside him.

He poured himself a second cup of coffee, picked up his phone, and he dialed the very familiar number.

"Joe's bar. This is Mike Ross."

"Mike? It's Rich. How are you?"

"Rich? Oh thank god. How are you? Everything ok by you?"

"I'm fine. Of course I woke up to three million messages on my machine, every single one asking me to call someone back, and I've barely had my first cup of coffee."

He heard Mike chuckle slightly over the telephone wire. "Three million?"

"Well, three. Two were from Joe. What's going on over there. He still around?"

"In back. I think he may be talking to Adam."

"Ah, right. Adam." Richie swallowed more coffee. "Everything ok over there, Mike? Joe said we had a problem."

"You could say that." Richie could just see Mike running a hand through his dark shock of hair. "I'm assuming Joe mentioned why he called."

"He said something in the first message, yeah. About losing a guy last night?"

"Yes. Problem is we can't find who we lost. And we can't get hold of some."

"Like who?"

"Nick and Amanda, for one. But they're still in Malayasia on holiday. Said something about not having a phone with them, so we know it can't be them."

"Who else?"

"Sean Burns. Robert and Gina de Valicourt."

"But none fo them were in Seacouver last night!"

" I know." Mike paused. "There's more, Rich."

Richie swallowed more coffee. "Who?"

"Asher Zakresjek."

"Asher? But she was with me last night."

"This was yesterday morning." Mike sighed throught the wire, and Richie knew the older man's eyes were closed. "We didn't account for her yesterday until she met up with you. We have a someone on her, but she keeps losing him."

"You don't think she killed the guy, do you?"

"No. I don't know what to think, Rich. We're not even sure if it is a Quickening witnessed yesterday. All we know is some of ours saw a single stroke of lightening in an otherwise perfect sky."

"A Quickening, right?"

"The girl who called Joe said something about it being a wormhole."

"A wormhole?"

"Yes. Far-fetched, huh?"

"Tell me about it." Richie finished his coffee; h set the empty mug by the sink. He pulled himself up onto the countertop, and reached over the toaster oven for the loaf of bread he kept. Balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, he opened the bag for two slices and popped them into the toaster. "Do you know the name of whoever called him?"

"Joe didn't say. She called him yesterday morning, then stopped in late yesterday afternoon, disappeared into his office, and didn't emerge until almost three hours later. He was in there with him almost the entire time. You'd have to ask Darcy. She went back there with drinks a couple of times. Said the girl's cellphone rang several times while she was in there."

"Know what she looked like?"

"Long, aubrun hair. Little more red than brown. Kind of short. Say maybe five feet, five foor one at most. She's one of ours, but she's not a field guy. She does research. I think we may have met once at a Christmas party."

The toaster regurgitated the toast, and Richie pulled the two pieces out, taking a bite from one slice. "Joe still on the phone?"

"Yep."

Richie nodded, knowing, of course, that Mike couldn't see the gesture. "Tell him I'm all right then, will you? I'll stop in later today to talk to him if he wants."

"Sure. Rich?"

"Yeah?"

"This probably isn't anything. Probably just a fluke somewhere in the system, or a thunderstorm somewhere yesterday. I wouldn't worry about it."

"Of course. I'll let you know anything when I see Asher next."

"Appreciate it."

8:39. AM.

Richie finished his toast. Pulled his last two eggs from the fridge and the bacon he still had left in his freezer. He scrambled the first and fried the second. He added salt and pepper to the eggs. Poured himself a glass of orange juice and read the paper while he ate.

9:07. AM.

Showered. Dressed. A message on his machine from when he was in the shower. Tying his shoes at the table, he hit the play button.

"Hi, Richard Ryan? My name is Fiona Phillips. I'm an associate of Joe Dawson. If possible, I'd like to speak to you about some recent events. Joe thought you might be able to shed some light on some of our most recent findings. If you could call me please, my number is 360-855-…. Thank you very much."

Richie quickly wrote the number and jammed the slip of paper into his pocket. If he had actually been answerign these questions, he'd be answering his phone, "Grand Central Station, thank you for calling, how could I help you please?" by now.

But he hadn't been. His answering machine had. And that didn't make any mention of Grand Central Station.

He grabbed his helmet, keys and cellphone, and he was out the door.

9:15. AM.

It was another beautiful spring morning.


	3. II

**Disclaimer**: None of these characters actually belong to me. Nor does the concept of Immortality. The plot is, however, entirely of my own devising.

**Author Notes**: Again, while the physics mentioned in this chapter does stem from factual evidence, quite a bit of Richie's opinion does stem directly from my own findings. I have something of a fascination with physics I'm afraid, and you have to admit, Quickening-inspired swordfights in the middle of a large-ish city does seem like soemthing straight out of a science fiction novel.

_**------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**_

He stopped in at the bookstore first to pick-up the book he ordered weeks ago, for a class he was taking at the University of Washington, Seacouver. It was a history book, which made sense he supposed, seeing as that was his concentration. He slid his debit card over the counter, shook his head politely when the clerk asked if he needed anything else.

"You were in my math class last semester, right?" the clerk asked. "Professor MacMillian? How'd you do?"

Richie signed the receipt, and pocketed the yellow slip of paper for his own records. He took the plastic bag with his book. "A B+. You?"

"A C-. Tough luck, huh? You taking anything else with him this semester?"

Richie shook his head. "Nah, you?"

"Nope." The clerk scratched the back of his hand awkwardly. "Well, have a great day."

"You too." Richie waved.

He popped his helmet back over his head, and kicked his motorcycle into gear. He stopped in at the dojo next, spending two hours in the office finishing the paperwork he hadn't last night, before he paused to watch a kid's martial arts class. Mumering soemthing about keeping up the good work, he left quickly to make his way back to the university, sliding into his seat mere seconds before his class started.

Time: noon-thirty.

Yep, another beautiful spring day.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Richie remained after class, lingering while he gathered his books and papers, making a big deal of straightening his pens so they were all perfectly lined up, and fiddling with the zipper on his coat. He waited while the other students slowly cleared the room, leaving in small groups, heads bent close together while they discussed normal college students things. He waited while his professor stuffed his own papers and that day's homework assignment into his leather briefcase before he carefulyl approached the desk, and cleared his throat.

"If this about next week's homework, you can forget asking for another extension," the professor stated without even looking up.

"It's not," Richie answered quietly.

"Well, then." Methos looked up from his still unzipped briefcase, and his expression softened just slightly. "What can I do for you, Rich?"

"Mike said you talked to Joe earlier today?"

"Bloody woke me up, bribing me with coffee and beer to come down there, but yes, I did." He jammed the last paper into his briefcase, and he pulled the zipper shut. "He called you too?"

"Did, yes. I talked to Mike. Thought I might stop in before I headed over to the garage. Did you happen to see a girl by the name of Fiona Phillips while you were over there? Mike mentioned she was by this morning?"

Methos cast Richie a puzzled look. "I was in yesterday, Rich." But he paused slightly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Fiona Phillips, you said?"

"Uh-huh. Why? You know her?"

"The name sounds familiar. She's a researcher, isn't she?"

"That's what Mike said."

"That's probably why then. You'd get more out of Joe."

Richie sighed. "I know."

Methos smiled then, a cross between melancholy, rare understanding, and rarer sympathy. He cuffed Richie's shoulder on his way out, brushing past the younger boy in a hurry both knew was more for show than actual. "Don't worry about it too much. I'm sure Joe'll take care of it. You, in the meantime, just worry about the paper coming up. And no asking Connor for help this time. I'll know if you do."

"Yes, sir," Richie mumbled, but he spoke the words to empty air, for Methos had already brushed past him and was gone.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn't know much about black holes or wormholes. Hell, half the time, he figured he didn't know mucb about actual Quickenings, other than from what he had gleaned listening to the older Immortals and from his own few, less than pleasant, experiences. He had taken only one physics course in his life, and that wasn't even in any proper classroom setting, Duncan had simply deciced to give him an impromptu lesson, spouting anecdotes from the age when he knew Albert Einstein. Connor and Rachel had been in visiting from New York, and it was Connor could do to keep from laughing.

"I suppose next you'll be telling the boy that it was you who convinced Albert to not take the Israeli presidency position?" the elder MacLeod had chuckled.

"Well, I don't like to brag…" Duncan had answered back.

Richie, of course, had been at a loss. He had perused the internet later that night, fiding what he could on the theory, not learning mcuh more than physics was much more theoretical than other sciences, like biolofy or chemistry, relying much more on the use of equations and theorems and proofs than any actual evidence. Stuff like the beginnings of the universe—and its eventual end—and time travel and rocketships to the enxt nearest star and alien life forms and black holes and wormholes and superstring theory all somehow jumbled together, feeding off one another, giving rise to new theories and questions and answers every day, to the poit where one almost couldn't tell what was fiction and what was factual. So much of the stuff sounded like complete science-fiction that he was only partly surprised that they weren't in there: Immortals, you didn't get much more science-fiction-y than that.

Fighting with swords. Quickenigns. Living forever. Someone could make a fortune off it, producing it into a book or television series.

Sometimes he wondered if he might. Write a book of it, he meant. He certainly knew enough stories from listening to Duncan and Connor for so many years.

He sighed, jammed the helmet back onto his head, and he sped off onto the road, heading to Joe's Bar. He had enough time for a few drinks, a few jokes with Mike, some harmless flirtation with Darcy, and whatever conversation Joe was expecting from him.

He still had to call Asher back, but then, she didn't really expect him to call before late. In the early AM at least; they were both busy: school, jobs, that peskey little thing known as real life and all the quirks, clauses and realities that came with it. That was why they had come up with their arrangement in the first place, or one the reasons, anyway.

Yes, he'd call her later. Around midnight, he figured. After he was done at the garage, and he had had time to at least start some of his homework, and had managed to eat dinner.

Meanwhile, time now: 3:00 in the afternoon. He needed to be at the garage by 6. Maybe in between he might call Fiona Phillips, figure out what it is she wanted, but first, first he wanted to know who she was.


End file.
